And once Bobby said to Alice: “We made a mistake, old girl, about that marriage. It's made another man of Peter. He's joy personified.” “If only,” Alice had answered, “destiny or whatever it is will let them alone. I feel as though they were two precious pieces of china that a housemaid might sweep off the chimney piece at any moment. If only nobody will touch them--” Meanwhile Peter had forgotten, utterly forgotten, the rest of the world. Walls and fires--for a year they had held him. The Roundabout versus the World.... What of old Frosted Moses, of the Sea Road, of Stephen, of Mr. Zanti? What of those desperate days in Bucket Lane? All gone for nothing? Clare, perhaps, with this year behind her, hardly realised the forces against which she was arrayed. Beware of the Gods after silence.... IV And, after all, it was Clare herself who flung down the glove. On a winter's evening she was engaged to some woman's party. Peter had planned an evening, snug and industrious, alone with a book. “The Stone House” awaited his attention--he had not worked at it for months. Also he knew that he owed Henry Galleon a visit. Why he had not been to see the old man lately he scarcely knew. Clare, standing in the little hall, waiting for a cab, suggested an alternative. “Peter dear, why don't you go round to Brockett's if you've nothing to do?” “Brockett's!” “Yes. You've never been since we married, and I had a letter from Norah this morning--not at all cheerful--I'm afraid she's been ill for months. They'd love to see you.” “Brockett's!” He stood astounded. Well, why not? A strange emotion--uncomfortable, alien, stirred him. He kissed her and saw her go with a half-distracted gaze. What a world away Brockett's seemed! Old Mrs. Lazarus, Norah (poor Norah!) Mrs. Brockett, young Robin Tressiter. They would be glad to see him--it was a natural thing enough that he should go--what was it that held him back? For the first time since his marriage, as he slowly and thoughtfully put on his greatcoat, he was distressed. He reproached himself--Norah, Stephen, Mr. Zanti!... he had not given them a thought. He felt, as he went out, as though he were going, with key and candle, to unlock some old rusty door that led into secret rooms. It was a wet, windy night. The branches of the little orchard rattled and groaned, and doors and windows were creaking. As he passed into the shadows and silence of Bloomsbury the impression weighed with increasing heaviness upon him that the old Peter had come back and that his married life with Clare had been a dream. He was still at Brockett's, still silent, shy, awkward, still poring over pages of “Reuben Hallard” and wondering whether any one would ever publish it--still spending so many hours in the old musty bookshop with Herr Gottfried's wild mop of hair coming so madly above the little counter.